


They met, once

by Merit



Category: Atomic Blonde (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-21 20:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12465668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Enough to say hello.





	They met, once

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bold_seer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/gifts).



They met in the spring.

It was a tiny apartment, a chair and a rug and not much else. They'd forsaken the chair, leaning against a wall, passing a cigarette between them. He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid the brightest thing in the room.

She leaned back, into his gun, smiling the joke. He's raised his glass, swallowing, his Adam's apple pulsing. He was filthy, a three day old beard and clothes she wouldn't have buried her worst enemy in.

When he leaned in to kiss her, she'd kept her eyes open, hand on her gun. She'd tasted blood and sweat and the cheap whiskey he'd smuggled in.

He closed his eyes, hands on her thighs, broad fingers sliding up her skirt.

 

 

They met at a bar.

She was all black dress, slit to her thigh, enough skin on display that everyone knew her intimate habits. The fishnets covered the looming bruise on her inner thigh, pain running down her bones, every time she crossed her legs.

There was a girl on his arm, but there was one of both on hers. They curled around her, leaning into her touch. They were new at this and she was – not.

They recognized each other, in the way she moved, in the way he talked.

They didn't speak to each other.

 

 

They met when she nearly shot him.

The bullet punctured the wall, breaking up the chintzy wallpaper. He glared at her, covered in dust, glasses smudged. He didn't have any weapons in his hands but that didn't mean anything. Then he said, wryly, wiping his glasses clean, that he was her contact. And she'd laughed.

She thought he was going to kill her.

And he'd laughed as well.

He thought she was going to kill him.

 

 

They met fighting back to back.

Something she was doing – top secret, she said with a jaunty toss of her hair – clashed with something he was doing – this never even happened, he said.

And they all knew about those missions.

Those missions where if you didn't come back, your family received a quiet notice three months later about an _unfortunate_ accident.

Lorraine loved those missions.

She had a knife and she was kicking and blood was streaked through her hair. It dripped down her neck, sticking quickly in the dry heat. He was breathing rapidly, pressing a hand against the wound in his chest.

She'd asked for his gun.

And he'd handed it over without a word.

 

 

They met in a white room.

There were mirrors on one side, a recorder between them, the tape ticking. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke in his face. He'd smiled into it. He was cleanly shaven and his collar was starched.

He smiled at her, quick and polite, eyes sliding over hers.

She lit another cigarette.

 

 

They met when he was dead.

She looked down at his body. They always looked smaller dead.

She ran her fingers through his hair, dry and impersonal, cleaned of the odious blood, skipping over the bullet wound. Closed casket funeral.

“Hello, James,” she said.


End file.
